Fetch
by Reina Blood
Summary: It began at Half-Circle Time, high on the moors of the Ramtops Mountains, with a lost little boy with one pinprick eye. It continued with witches, assassins, and a few mysterious visitors, before sailing off onto the high sea. CHAPTER SEVEN NOW UP! Please do review!
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

This is my first fic for the site, born of a flash of inspiration regarding the origin of our favorite Mad Assassin. I'm not sure where this will end up, but I intend to follow the storyline at least until after the events of the Hogfather.

Of course, All The Things belong to Mr. Terry Pratchett, and due diligence and respect is owed to the many far-superior fanfic writers who have explored the Good Ship Death n' Doom before me. And away we go ...

* * *

"_Verence sat beside the Queen of the Elves. __His pupils were tiny pinpoints; he smiled faintly, permanently, in a way very reminiscent of the Bursar."_— Terry Pratchett, "Lords and Ladies"

_"'And she takes children,' said Tiffany. 'Aye. Your wee brother's not the first,' said Rob Anybody. 'There's not a lot of fun and laughter here, ye ken. She thinks she's good wi' children."_ — "The Wee Free Men"

**CHAPTER 1: PROLOGUE**

It began with a whisper. A nearly-imperceptible _susurrus, _like the breath of silk. On the high moors of the Ramtop Mountains, the silence began to stir, witnessed only by eight squat little stones standing vigil on the crown of a low and lonely hill.

It eased with a gentle insistence through the surrounding landscape, like ripples expanding in a pond. It insinuated through the briars and the trees of the forest, sending a shiver even through the notoriously indomitable Ramtops hardwoods, which generally had the attitude of a Nac Mac Feegle in the midst of an Anhk-Morpork bar brawl. Battle-scarred branches curled protectively around the leafbuds of early spring.

In Lancre village, townspeople stirred and tossed in their beds, pulling the blankets tight against the sudden chill. Those of a more formidable liver stalked quietly to the liquor cabinet, or whatever hidden spot passed for a liquor cabinet. All across town, windows slammed shut and houses filled with the light of stoked fires and a smell like apples soaked in a decaying goat.

It was like a long-forgotten song, echoing softly at the edges of the mind ...

The smell of snow.

High on the mountain, the spell of the stirring wind was broken by the greasy _thump, thump _of hobnailed boots hitting a stone floor, resonating from a practical cottage roofed in unruly thatch. Inside, a figure rocked slowly in an old rocking chair near the hearth. A long shadow cast by the dying embers of the fire rolled across the floor and up the wall behind the figure, ending at a point.

Esmerelda Weatherwax rocked and stared into the coals. She would have never said she was afraid, or worried; _bothered, _that's what she was. She pulled her tall hat off her head and into her lap, turning it round and round in her hands, thinking. Suddenly, her back stiffened, and her upper lip curled. She sniffed the air again.

_A whisper ... a smell of snow ..._

Granny — _no, _Mistress _Weatherwax, not Granny, she reminded herself; she was hardly old enough for that yet —_ stood up and screwed the hat back on her head. As the rear door swung shut behind her, the barest hint of frost kissed the pane of a single window.

Nanny Gripes had told her that This Time would come. It had been on one of the old witch's last lucid days, which were even more disconcerting for the then-young Esme Weatherwax than the stretches of weeks she had spent stealthily taking the old cat off of the stove and the kettle off of the back porch after Nanny had gone to bed. Esme was not unfamiliar with the urgently honest nature of the dying, having over three decades looked after more than her share of the sick and the old. It was part of the job. But even for a witch of her water, Death still had its surprises.

They had been shucking peas together, in the warm sun on the lawn of the cottage. Nanny Gripes had been noisily sipping on a bottle of scumble between peapods, on the grounds, she said, that it kept her joints properly lubricated. From time to time, she waved the bottle under Esme's nose, foul vapors attacking the younger witch's sinuses like boiling acid. "You ought to try some," Nanny cackled, light dancing behind her clouded eyes. "It'd do ya good, put some warts on your face, that sort of thing."

Esme had taken a few respectful sips, taking care to breathe through her mouth, and through the sudden buzzing fog continued with her shucking. A period of peaceful silence was broken by Nanny Gripes' lusty and pointed throat-clearing.

"So, what ever happened 'twixt you and that young Ridicullously boy, from up Bad Ass way?"

Esme almost spilled her peas. Nanny Gripes chuckled obscenely.

"Aye, I knows all about that summer, gel." Her sightless gaze lit straight through Esme's own blue eyes and into her thoughts. "No, it wasn't that Gytha Ogg that told me, don't be getting your fire up. There's more than a few who noticed you two running around the hills them three months, like a pair of deer in spring."

Esme sucked in a breath. "His name was Ridcully. Mustrum Ridcully." She forced herself to relax her white-knuckled grip on the edges of the pea bowl. "Nothing happened. I didn't care about him. He was a little fool. Thought he was going to be a wizard." An awkward sensation, like being a teenager again, crept up in her throat. She spat. "He went away, like I told him he ought to."

Nanny Gripes cheerfully hummed a few off-key notes. "Nothing inappo'riate then. I thought not. Odd summer, that was. It always is, at Circle Time. I reckon She finds some way to put thoughts in people's heads."

You could have sharpened a knife on the silence that followed. The old witch's knotted fingers resumed working at the peas, her face growing hard and resolved as she gazed out over the landscape.

"You ain't a daft one, Esmerelda Weatherwax, and that's the truth. You'd been able to take care of yourself since long before you stepped foot in this cottage. But I ain't gonna be here much longer, and some things has got to be taught. You might be just a gel yet, but there's a duty that comes along with this house, duty that's born in the bones and in the old stories that only gets told in this cottage. Handed down, one by one. Just between us," Nanny Gripes cleared her throat again, softer this time, "the _other ones._"

Even thirteen years later, as she trudged up the snaking path toward the moors, Esme Weatherwax could hear old Nanny Gripes' gravelly voice guiding and warning her. The Dancers were a dangerous place during Circle Time, when the borders were thin and The Gentry could come sneaking out and things from this world could fall into theirs, just by accident. But it was all part of the pattern, just like the wax and wane of the moon. And just as the moon must pass through darkness halfway toward becoming full again, so must the cycle of this universe and the parasite world of the Lords and Ladies wane until it came to a midpoint.

Half-Circle Time.

They would not be monsters, Nanny Gripes had said. They would be creatures of this world that had wandered, or been stolen, into the land of the Gentry, and languished there outside of time. Their bodies would remain unchanged but their minds would be cracked like a pane of glass, worn down by the oppressive un-reality of Fairy Land and the fading memory of their previous lives. And when Half-Circle Time came, the Queen would briefly lose her grip on the things she had taken, and some of them would slip back into the Real World.

"_Sometimes, it'll just be animals, beasts mad and rabid, stumbling lost back into a land they half-forgot," _Nanny Gripes had whispered, urgently. _"Searching for their packs, long since dead. But sometimes it's men — bards or poets, clinging onto one old verse, wandering blindly and singing until they fall to their death in some gorge. Eyes with just a speck of black in the center, like they'd been staring at the sun for a century. And that ain't the worst. Sometimes it's children."_

Now within sight of the Dancers, Granny Weatherwax shivered at the memory of the words.

"_There ain't no kindness in letting 'em live like that."_

A sudden, sharp sound from the stones interrupted her thoughts. A high-pitched giggle.

Granny broke into a run.

There, at the base of the Piper, lay a gurgling bundle. The witch held her breath. It was a child.

There was a round cherub head crowned in a mess of blond curls, a sleeping face contorted into a faint smile. It was hard to tell, swaddled as it was in a tattered black blanket, but Esme guessed the child's age at around three or four. A boy.

Suddenly, as if it had been open the whole time, one alarming eye regarded Esmerelda Weatherwax. It was a pale eye, with no apparent iris, and a pupil like the sharp prick of a hatpin.

The boy giggled again.


	2. Chapter 2: Another Place At the Table

"_The long Shrine of hunger. Window spectra  
__Bleak on the retina. It is the hunger  
__Humbles the eye-beam."  
_– _Ted Hughes, "He Who Devours"_

"_Doctor Follett is such a charming man, don't you think? Is that his own hair, do you know?"  
_— _Madam Roberta Meserole, "Night Watch"_

**CHAPTER 2: ANOTHER PLACE AT THE TABLE**

Aside from a tendency to giggle at unlikely moments, the boy was — thankfully, Granny Weatherwax thought — almost completely mute. Less pleasant was the discovery of his apparently bottomless appetite; by mid-morning on his first day the boy had devoured most of the cottage's provisions, including the last of the cheese and rashers of salt pork put back for winter, all of the milk and the eggs, the bread and the honey, and every single apple in what had before seemed a practically endless supply (provided regularly by a distant neighbor whose youngest child, the eighth daughter of an eighth son, had been brought into the world by Granny under unusual circumstances).

The boy had eaten the apples swiftly, but with a fastidiousness that even Granny Weatherwax thought a trifle odd in a child of his age. He sat perched on a kitchen chair, dissecting the fruit one by one with an aged paring knife that Granny (who was feeling ever more _Granny _with each minute that went by with this bizarre child in her presence) did not remember giving him; the boy seemed to have found it in a forgotten corner of the house.

Beneath his wreath of blond curls, his face screwed up with the solemn gravitas of the very young, the boy chewed thoughtfully as he cut away fresh bites. The process continued until the apple bag lay in an empty burlap pile on the floor and a row of twenty-three meticulously-carved cores sat primly on the table.

Granny Weatherwax cleared her throat and looked at the boy sharply, before he could go in search of yet more provisions. He gazed back at her through one pinprick eye; its mate, nothing but a ruined ghost, seemed despite its absence to stare hungerly as well.

Something had to be done about that missing eye. She wondered, grimly, how he'd lost it.

"No more for you this morning," she intoned, voice lowering. "I ain't Black Aliss, young man. This cottage ain't made of food."

The boy looked at her imploringly. His barren eye socket gaped wide, as if it were about to say something. Granny half-sighed, half-grunted.

"You'll just be waitin' until dinner. We eat _proper _meals 'round these parts. You want a snack, you can have some biscuits at teatime."

The boy's face brightened. "Tea ... time?" he chirped.

The witch nodded solemnly, and pointed to the clock ticking away on the wall. "Half-past four, if that means anything to you."

* * *

The request was most … unusual.

Doctor Follett drummed his fingers delicately on the aged teak of his desk, regarding with suspicion the paper that lay before him. He reviewed the words again, searching for some subtle joke and finding none. He narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips, and carefully patted his hair.

It was, everyone* agreed, a remarkably distinguished head of hair. It was pure white and thick as a featherbed, shaped and curved as handsomely as a marble statue. It lent Doctor Follet a certain _gravitas;_ evidence of a noble virility that had endured and even triumphed against the vicious guerrilla warfare of time. Follett was very proud of his hair, and carefully oiled and styled it each evening before storing it in its box beneath his bedside table. He slept soundly in the knowledge that, unlike those of less clever men, _his_ secrets were quite assuredly safe.

_*Everyone that mattered, anyway. Less significant individuals, such as those who resided in unsavory locales like the Shades and rural** areas well beyond the city walls, could at fifteen paces recognize Dr. Follet's coiffure as the pelt of long-haired sewer rat, a creature not so much its own species as two: An ordinary Ankh-Morpork rat, afflicted with a particularly nasty type of mite having a number of unpleasant affects on its host — including a dwindled interest in follicular hygiene. That the rats' furs ended up in high-end toupee shops under the brand name Les Cheveux Qui Rampe was a source of private amusement, and funds, for many members of Ankh-Morpork's lower caste._

_** Pronounced, naturally, with the sort of inflection all civilized persons employ when uttering such phrases as "sewer rat."_

Satisfied that things on his head were in order, the Head of the Assassin's Guild returned his attention, and his frown, to the matter at hand.

It was, in every aspect, a most unusual situation indeed. However, Follett reminded himself, the Guild had undertaken all manner of extraordinary commissions in its time; and while not exactly _forbidden_, refusing to fulfill a contract was generally avoided on principle.

The Assassins Guild was one of the oldest and most respected institutions in Ankh-Morpork. It had survived for centuries by operating by a strict code that both governed the Guild and was, in essence, the guild itself. Utilizing the elegant sociological calculus of The Rules, the Guild took promising young boys and, through world-class instruction and the social Darwinism of competitive examination,* transformed them into Assassins with a capital A. Smart, fashionable gentlemen of the highest caliber who would, for an exorbitant fee, bring the worldly troubles of a client to an end. Permanently, and with a receipt.

_* Unlike many of the other high-class educational institutions in Ankh-Morpork, the Assassins Guild School was entirely secular. As such, its students were taught only the Theory of Evolution, or as it is more commonly known, the Theory of Homicidal Selection._

Without rules, they would be nothing but lower-case criminals, a class of people who in Ankh-Morpork were about as sophisticated and exclusive as the inside of CMOT Dibbler's pork pies.

And that was the trouble. There were Rules, _but_ _— _Follett was beginning to sweat beneath the weight of centuries-old Guild precedent — they were, indeed, an Ankh-Morporkian institution. Outside the city walls, the service of inhumation was not protected by the conventions of civilized society and was generally regarded (Follett wrinkled his nose) as common murder. Oh yes, the Guild had certainly undertaken its rightful share of political assassinations, many of them in foreign lands; however, or perhaps _therefore_, the aristocracy of most surrounding countries aspired to model itself on Ankh-Morporkian high society. A visit from a certified Assassin was generally regarded, among the _haut monde _of the region, as a high (if fatal) honor.

But this was not an inconvenient heir to some far-away throne, or even an aging member of the Quirmian _nouveau riche_ looking to elevate his family name via a noble death. This particular client appeared to be a fairly (Follett wrinkled his nose again) ordinary man, residing in an especially rustic and politically irrelevant region in the Ramtops Mountains. According to the contract, the target was past middle-age and likely employed as a skilled tradesman; a carter, or perhaps a weaver.

Follet's nose was beginning to develop permanent frown lines. He wiped his brow, patted his hair again, and heaved the long sigh of a man coming to grips with the inevitable.

Sending a Guild-trained Assassin to inhume a nameless backwater peasant did seem unfair and, worse, unsophisticated. But there was the money to consider. Lord Snapcase had been rather ungrateful for the role that the Guild had played in his ascent to Patricianship; it had become necessary to smuggle several of the School's most promising students out of the city. These had suddenly become lean times, and in Ankh-Morkpork, gold always spent — even if it was heathen gold, minted in some primitive smithy.

Half of the not-insignificant fee had been paid up front, when the deal was struck; the commission had been arranged more than twenty-five years ago. The other half had arrived last night. Follett was hazy on the manner of its arrival, but he was absolutely clear on one thing: He did not want to return it.

If there's anything that an Assassin hates giving, it's a refund.

Heaving another resigned sigh, Follett summoned one of his assistants and sent a message down to the Guild Hall. Giving orders always helped him think. Minutes later, when a dark figure glided elegantly into his office, Follett had the beginnings of a plan.

He nodded a greeting to his visitor, one seasoned professional to another. "Mr. Cruces." Nod. "I'd appreciate if you could consult on a matter of, ahem, Guild business. Please take a seat."

Cruces sat. Follett handed over the contract. Cruces read, hummed disapprovingly, and carefully set the paper back on the Guild Master's desk.

"Let me get to the point, Mr. Cruces. While this arrangement is contrary to the ethos of the Guild, it is one of our oldest commissions, and the fee has been paid. I also perceive that these circumstances could bring a potential end to a, ahem, situation currently facing our noble institution." He paused for effect, and looked the other man in the eye before continuing.

"Are there any advanced students left who might_ benefit_," Follett cleared his throat pointedly, "from a holiday in the country?"

Cruces considered the question, then nodded. "We received fresh intelligence on Snapcase this morning. He seems to be losing interest, with the Selachii siblings overseas and Vetinari traveling in Überwald. However, I believe there are two more students who could yet do with a little vacation. Just to be on the safe side."

Follett smiled grimly. "Yes, yes. Some time off from studies might be in order. We don't want our top pupils getting, as they say, _burnt out_."


	3. Chapter 3: Two of Spades

_"And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?" said Tom.  
"Oh, I go by various names," replied the stranger. "I am  
the Wild Huntsman in some countries, and the Black Miner  
in others. In this neighbourhood I am known by the name  
of the Black Woodsman. ... Since the red men have been  
exterminated by you white savages, I amuse myself by  
presiding at the persecutions of quakers and anabaptists;  
I am the great patron and prompter of slave dealers, and  
the grand master of the Salem witches."  
_— "The Devil and Tom Walker," American folk tale

**CHAPTER 3: TWO OF SPADES**

_Midnight came. Shadows pooled like blood and saturated the dirt of the crossroads. Up from that fertile soil a figure grew, giving shape to the moonless dark._

_Across the moors and through the forest it roamed, black as pitch, on two legs and on four. Eyes like red coals scoured the earth. A huge nose drank the night wind. _

_Darkness was a hunter, and soon it caught the scent. The figure__ stalked up a low hill and circled the ring of stones, honing in on a scrap of cloth. Hands like great pitchforks touched the ragged blanket. __The beast sniffed; the night held its breath. _

_A deafening, triumphant howl rang out like the gongs of hell ... and was interrupted._

"_Buggerit damn arrgghhh arrggggghhhhhh," whined a voice._

_The darkness crouched, and scratched frantically behind one ear._

* * *

The carriage hit another bump. The pair of travelers inside winced frantically, like ravens on a live wire.

"I _told _you this was rubbish in the beginning," said one of the young men, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his black frock coat. "They don't even have proper roads up here." He ignored a dark look from across the coach, and waved his hands theatrically.

"Nothing in these parts but rocks and mangy sheep. Until we get to the village, of course. Full of people that make the livestock look hygienic. My uncle says —"

"_Be quiet_, Downey," snapped the other young man. "Act like a professional. We're here to do a job, not enjoy the local culture."

A breakneck turn in the road threw them both into the side of the coach.

"Say what you want, Ludo," Downey persisted with the righteousness of a door-to-door solicitor, "but you know this is old Folly's way of getting us out of the building. He's afraid of that nutter Snapcase. _Afraid_, can you believe it? As if that scag could —"

"Shut _up,_ Downey."

The ride continued in sulky, bruised silence.

The Guild had arranged for an express coach, an unfamiliar means of transport for those born and bred in Ankh-Morpork. Anyone traveling by private carriage could afford to waste time, and everyone else in the city moved only as fast as their legs could carry them. The express coach, though, operated on horsepower, not seat cushions. It was meant for things like mail and unlicensed thieves — folded up, stamped on and carried out of town in a bag.

They had left early, at the crack of noon, and so far it had not been a comfortable journey. Johan "Ludo" Ludorum eventually found himself privately agreeing with the assertion of his aching backside: After seven hours of potholes, hairpin switchbacks and Downey's ceaseless whining, the whole thing was becoming a real pain in the ass.

It got worse after sundown. The landscape of the Ramtops, which was already about as horizontal as a yo-yo, seemed to shift and spill beneath them as the coach rushed blindly through the night. Ludo dozed fitfully, stumbling through dreams of quicksand; in his sleep, Downey muttered about blankets, and big black dogs. They awoke to a rapping on the coach door.

The journey was finally over.

The youths spilled out into the town square like a pair of drunken blackbirds and pulled their spartan luggage off the roof of the coach. The taller of the two tossed a coin to the driver, much to the consternation of the other. "We ought to give that scag a _real _tip," he muttered, as the carriage sped away. "A very pointed one."

"_Shut_ _up,_ Downey, and let's find the inn. I might be inclined to make a point, if I don't get some slee..."

Ludorum's words trailed off. They both stared down the road.

A merry light glowed from the windows of the slumped building. It had announced itself from a distance with the roar of breaking glass and laughter and stamping feet and singing, and a smell that emanated out of the thatched roof like the ghost of garbage day. One wayward draft horse galloped desperately through the square, dragging a giant plow; an evil-looking grey tomcat streaked behind it in hot pursuit.

The assassins walked slowly toward the building in mute, mutual horror. As the sign dangling from one nail over the front door came into view, Ludo choked on thin air and Downey began, softly, to hyperventilate.

"This is?" he wheezed, pathetically. "This is? The Lancre? Goat and Bush? Inn?"

The words leapt desperately upward, scrabbling for an escape and finding none. "Where? Our rooms? Reserved?"

The pair stared helplessly at the door. Another song bubbled up from the primordial ooze of sound inside the tavern, accompanied by more laughter and a lusty thumping, like hobnailed boots dancing on a bar table.

"That's not right," Ludo said hollowly, after a few minutes of listening. "If that was true, about the hedgehogs, how could they reproduce?"

* * *

"And theeeeennnnn," Nanny Ogg said, with the slow trill of someone really enjoying their own story, "I falls right off the table and into the welcoming arms of two dark and handsome young gentlemen."

"I bet," said Granny Weatherwax testily. "I bet they was real strapping gents, too, to be catching _you_ without no notice. Took the breath right out of them, I expect. And all on accident, was it?"

"Tripped right over my own skirts," grinned Nanny. Even with one tooth, she could smile more lasciviously than a shark in a goldfish farm. "Good bit of luck that was, them good-looking lads being there where I absolutely did not notice them previous. You gonna let me in or what?"

Granny stood at the cracked door, thinking silently for longer than seemed possible. Finally, she sighed. "I suppose you ought. But you'd best leave that story outside, Gytha Ogg. I got something that needs looking after in here."

"That's what he sai—"

Granny's stare was like blue lighting.

"All right, all right," Nanny conceded, bustling through the back door. Her eyes alighted on a small figure balanced on the edge of a kitchen chair; she clapped her hands delightedly. "What's this, Esme? Cooo-eee! Issaa wotcha wotcha den, little ..."

The tiny figure turned its blond head toward Nanny. She stopped stock-still.

"Cor."

The boy produced a deranged giggle.

Back outside on the lawn, the witches talked in hushed and urgent tones. Nanny Ogg was shaking. "Esme, Esme, you got to … you can't keep him here. You know what people'll think. And with his eye all missing? They'll push you into your own oven. Or at least they'll think real hard about it, someplace far off."

"You don't think I know that?" hissed Granny Weatherwax. "I ain't gonna _keep_ him here, Gytha Ogg, he ain't a pet." She lowered her voice further. "I found the poor child up at the Dancers."

Nanny stood wide-eyed, shocked into a rare silence.

"That's _right_," Granny said, meaningfully. "Who even knows where he came from? Or when? Shall we trot right into town and wave him about, asking if anyone recognizes their great-uncle Jon-Jon?" She shook her head. "It ain't as easy as all that, Gytha. But we've got to find a place for him, sure enough. And it's got to be far from here. You know that _She_ won't rest if she thinks one of her toys has got away."

"When I was just a gel," murmured Nanny Ogg, slowly, "our mum told me about old Three-Finger Thatcher. When Thatcher was a lad of ten, he had a pet lamb that followed him everywhere. He called the little thing Snowflake. It disappeared one night in midsummer." She shuddered. "He grew up and got old, Thatcher did, and then one day in the early spring he comes tottering into town hollerin' about how his Snowflake had come back. They all thought he'd gone mad, but then down the path from the Dancers trots this little sheep. This was his lamb, says old Thatcher, he'd know him anywhere. And he reaches down to pat the wee lamb's face."

Granny nodded grimly. "And that's how he became Three-Finger Thatcher."

Nanny shut her eyes. "My mum said that sheep wouldn't let loose of his hand until after they chopped its head off."

The grim silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of laughter, like breaking glass. The shocked eyes of the witches snapped over to a nearby tree, where a small face crowned in golden curls gazed down from the branches.

"Hungry," the face said. "Want biscuit."

Granny rallied swiftly. "No more until supper, young man," she barked. "And get down from that tree this instant."

"No supper. Want biscuit!"

Nanny Ogg pulled herself together and put on a bright smile. "Now Granny," she cooed. "He's a going to be a good boy, isn't he? And good boys can have biscuits at —"

"_Don't say the words, _Gytha Ogg," Granny hissed. Nanny cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

"Don't say them words. T ... E ... A," Granny squinted in concentration, "T .. I ... M ... eh, errr, E, I think. We'll never hear the end. The boy has no concept of time. It's taken me two days to stop him waking me up in the middle of the night asking about, err, _it_."

But Nanny was still stuck on the spelling. "Teh ah … teh ah tam, uhhh … teh-ah-tam-e?" she puzzled.

"Do you normally eat biscuits at _teh-ah-tam-e_, Gytha Ogg? At half past four?"

Realization dawned over the wrinkled horizon of Nanny's face. "Ahhhhhhh," she said. "You mean —"

"_Don't say the words!"_

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm chugging along as quickly as I can, and yet the end I have envisioned for _Fetch_ seems to get further and further away ... this may eventually become a two-part story, I don't know. A time jump may eventually be in order. What do you think, Dear Reader?

Also: I'm very grateful for the kind reviews I've gotten so far. If you're feeling unkind, however, go right ahead and tell me if you feel so inclined! I write and edit for a living, so I know the value of constructive criticism. No matter what, please review!


	4. Chapter 4: An Itch to Scratch

"_I gotta roll, can't stand still, got a flaming heart, can't get my fill  
__Eyes that shine burning red, dreams of you all through my head"  
_— "Black Dog," Led Zeppelin

**CHAPTER 4: AN ITCH TO SCRATCH**

_He heard the Beastie howling again, outside in the dark. It was hunting him, he knew; the howls were getting closer. But he could also hear the Thing With Blue Eyes in the next room, grunting and snoring, so everything was all right._

_He liked this creature, Blue Eyes. It had taken him into the big room with the fire, and fed him, and held him close until the last of the panic died away. Until he woke up in the cold darkness near the stones he had not realized how scared he was — or how hungry. It had never even occurred to him in the other place, the dream place. Now he could have eaten and eaten until he devoured the world._

_Blue Eyes wore dark clothes and had gray hair, and sometimes a tall black hat. The tall hat was full of sharp, shiny things, which the boy liked. They comforted him; if he had the sharp things, the safety of Blue Eyes couldn't be far away. He knew this to be true because, when he took the sharp things out of the hat, Blue Eyes got very close to him and made a lot of loud noises until he put them back._

_The stars and the sun had cycled three times since he'd been in the stone house. On the third sun, another creature had arrived, this one smaller and lumpier than Blue Eyes but wearing similar black clothes. The pair had gone outside and made sounds at each other while he slipped up a nearby tree. He didn't like to be too far from Blue Eyes, and he was hungry again._

_Then they had all gone back inside, where the new creature gave him biscuits under the table when Blue Eyes wasn't looking. He liked this one too, he decided, and was sad later when it went away._

_Now the howling was just outside. The Beastie was his friend, but he knew that if it found him it would take him away again. He slipped through the house and to the little bed upstairs. When he patted Blue Eye's hand, it was cold and stiff. _

_A window was open. The boy shivered, despite himself, and snuck under the covers next to the silent figure. _

_He felt the fear again._

* * *

Nanny Ogg felt the weight of Greebo lift from her feet as she surfaced from dreamland, a sharp noise nagging at her consciousness. She stirred in bed, then sat up. Something was rapping at her window.

Padding over, she shooed the cat away and lifted the window open. A great black bird glared at her from the sill.

"Hullo," said Nanny. "You here to fly about the place, say 'Nevermore' and suchlike?"

The raven squawked peevishly, and pecked Nanny Ogg's thumb.

"All right, all right, you don't got to resort to violence," Nanny replied, rubbing her hand. "And just when I was getting to sleep. Let me get my clothes on and the broomstick warmed up, and I'll be up there in a jiffy."

The raven cawed again, and flew off into the night.

When Nanny Ogg touched down on the lawn of the cottage, Granny Weatherwax was just crawling out of bed, rousing stiff joints and stifling the urge to flap her arms. She pulled a bit of pork rind from behind a dresser and slipped it to the waiting beak outside, then closed the window and lurched downstairs.

"There's a mighty howling on the wind tonight," said Nanny from the hearth, where she was busy heating water for some midnight tea. "Sounds like one of them big dogs that hunters use to tree mountain lions. Frightful noise, that is."

"I reckon that's about right," responded Granny, perched in her rocking chair. "He's hunting. I saw him from the sky, stalking around and making his ruckus. I think he's searching for the boy."

"Oh, cor," frowned Nanny, pouring hot water into the waiting teapot. "What's he want that poor child for?"

Granny Weatherwax shook her head, put one finger to her lips and gestured toward the front door. They could hear snuffling, and nails scratching at the ground. Suddenly, there was a sound like raw meat hitting a slab as something slammed against the wood. The witches exchanged looks.

"I think we're about to find out," said Granny. She crossed the floor in one stride and wrenched the door open.

* * *

Near Ankh-Morpork, three rowboats appeared as distant specks on the Circle Sea, advancing steadily through the night toward the glow of the city.

"We should 'ave dropped anchor closer to shore," grumbled a voice over the cadence of the oars.

"Aye, and have them wantin' to charge us tariffs, or search the ship fer contreyband?" snapped another voice. "That new nob they got runnin' things, word is he's got an army o' revenooers who'll tax the boots right off yer feet."

"Well ain't that a fine thing," leered a third voice nastily. "Hidin' from the revenoo, is we? I bet them tax collectors bleed when you stick 'em, just like e'rybody else."

"Shut yer mouth and row, Bonnet, or we'll sees how you bleed," said the second voice. "We can't have a bunch o' city folk pokin' their noses in it. Let's get this done and be back out to sea."

The rowboats slid through the waves toward the mouth of the Ankh. As they passed into the river, the boats began to slow and struggle, like frogs caught in cooling tar.

"Scuttled!" exclaimed the voice called Bonnet. "What d'ye expect to do now, Red?"

"We ain't scuttled, boy," said Red. "This is the Ankh. Row harder."

* * *

"Well, well. If it ain't Old Itchy."

Granny Weatherwax loomed in the doorway, Nanny Ogg brandishing the cast-iron kettle behind her. On the doorstep, a dark shape began a hasty retreat until Granny caught it by the scruff and dragged it inside, where it cowered on the floor and scratched frantically at its ear.

"MuhmuhmuhmuhMistress Weatherwax," the black dog whined, back foot thumping against the floor as it scratched. "I-I-I-I didn't know ..."

"Stop fussing with that ear, Itchy, and sit down," barked Granny. "We've got some questions that needs answers. Like, for instance, what you're doin' at an old woman's door in the middle of the night."

The figure slowly unfolded from the floor and resolved into a giant black-skinned man in dark clothes. He edged into a wooden chair, clawing feverishly at his neck.

"If you do not stop that scratching this instant," Granny said, "it will go very hard for you." Beside her, Nanny hefted the kettle.

"Sorry, Mistresses," said Itchy, pathetically. "I did not mean to offend."

Granny Weatherwax poured herself a cup of tea, adding three spoons of sugar and stirring slowly. "I expect," she said, sipping from the saucer, "that you're here for the boy. What right do you have, taking a child of that age? Signed himself over for a new toy and some sweets, did he?"

Itchy grimaced, shifting in his seat and rubbing his forearms. "A bargain was made. A real crossroads bargain, a compact of the blood, struck in good faith with a desperate man. A father, who gave to me his soul in exchange for the safety of his son."

Nanny cleared her throat. "So the bargain," she said, "was for the father, not the son. What are you doin', then, huntin' this young lad?"

"The terms of the agreement were that I keep the boy from harm," said Itchy. "So now I'm bound, you see, but he slipped away —"

"You brought him to _Her_ kingdom?" Granny snapped, glaring. "To keep him safe, you left him with the _Gentry_?"

"I never left him," whined Itchy. "I stayed there, and watched over him. I have an, um, accord with, ah, _Her_. And that's the one place that no one who'd hurt him could dare go. I figured, well, better _there_ than dead."

"I don't know about all that."

There was a long, dangerous pause as Granny Weatherwax sipped her tea. Nanny Ogg broke the silence first. "How long?" she said. "How long you been keepin' that boy there?"

Itchy pawed absent-mindedly at his ear. "Twenty-five years last summer," he said, softly.

There was an anxious giggle from the corner. After a brief moment, Nanny cooed and patted her lap. The boy tottered out of his corner and stared gravely at the dark man, who tried awkwardly to smile at him and returned to scratching instead.

"Well, he'll not be going back _there_, not if I have anything to do with it," Granny said, meaningfully. "And he can't stay in Lancre, either, lest people start asking questions. So we're going to send him away, someplace where no one could possibly know where he is. After twenty-five years, that shouldn't be too hard. We just put him where there's lots of other people, so's he don't stand out."

Itchy heaved a resigned sigh, and fished something out of his pocket. "He'd best have this, then."

It was a glass ball. The dark man carefully dropped it on the table, where it spun in a slow circle before Granny snatched it. She gazed intently at the orb in the light of the fire.

"Mistress," pleaded Itchy, "The boy must have it. His father passed it down to him. It's his eye, you see. He'll need it now."

Granny gazed a second longer, shook her head and set the glass eye back on the table. It rolled toward the boy and dropped into his outstretched hand. The boy juggled it from finger to finger with impossible fluidity before he held the orb to his empty eye socket. There was a wet _pop._

Itchy shivered and looked away. "Well, that's done, then. What now? How do we get him out of Lancre?"

Nanny grinned, suddenly. "You just leave that to us."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Finally, the story is starting to really move along! I was afraid I'd be stuck writing exposition forever. I did hit a tough spot where I realized that I'd mucked up the math on the timeline, so some small but significant detail edits have been made in previous chapters. There's also another chapter on the way very soon, possibly tomorrow. PLEASE REVIEW!


	5. Chapter 5: A hard man to find

**CHAPTER 5: A HARD MAN TO FIND**

_Yank, yank, yank. _

Granny Weatherwax, pragmatist to the bone, knew this was the right thing to do. The boy was not safe in Lancre, no matter what the old black dog might have bargained. Especially because of what the black dog might have bargained.

Promises, even magic promises, couldn't keep a person safe; Granny knew that better than anybody. Magic wasn't a fire extinguisher. It was a bucket of gasoline.

She knew this was the Right Thing, like a dowsing rod knows water. The boy must be sent away, far away, to people who might look after him without crossroads deals. _It was the Right Thing._ But she didn't have to like it.

_Yank. Yank._

The boy knew something was up. He'd responded by stealing things and hoarding food at every opportunity — Granny had found leftover bread crusts, a half-bushel of apples, a wheel of cheese, three knives and one of her hatpins amongst the nest of blankets she'd made up for him in the closet. After she'd discovered his hiding spot, the boy had resorted to begging. Ceaselessly.

"Teatime?" the boy trilled, yanking hopefully at her skirts. "Teatime?" _Yank. Yank. _

She had this to say for the boy: It was very difficult to actually try Granny's patience, despite all evidence to the contrary. But he was doing it.

* * *

"Well, there's Weaver, who's a thatcher, and Thatcher, who's a carter," said Quarney the store-keeper. "And George Baker's a weaver, so's Tailor. And of course there's old Bestiality Carter, but he's a baker. He's not really a _skilled, _er, trades, persay, unless you like your wedding cake more like dwarf bread. "

Downey's brow furrowed in concentration. "Wait, who was the tailor?"

"Carpenter's the tailor, don't think I've mentioned him yet. Obidiah Carpenter. Nice lad, also deals in furs, if you're in the market for a mink coat that smells of skunk. And he'll put a couple nails in your roof if you need extra leaks. Course there's Tinker, he's a tinker — family trade, naturally — and Jason Ogg's the town blacksmith."

For days Ludo and Downey had been holed up in their little room at the Goat and Bush, drinking tea, eating cold roast mutton and pouring over the assignment file. Back in Ankh-Morpork the contract had seemed simple, almost insultingly so. The Head of the Assassin's Guild had chosen to personally debrief them — an intriguing development for a pair of students, even seniors — but when they arrived in his vast office Follett had just lectured endlessly on about the Guild's Standards of Behavior (which, he noted repeatedly, Do Not End Outside City Walls). The contract itself was almost an afterthought. Just locate the client, inhume him, and return with his personal effects as proof of completion.

There was no name, but that would hardly be necessary in a town of a few hundred men and no locked doors. "All the necessary information is noted in the file. It shouldn't be a challenge," Follett had said. "Just take all the time you need, heh heh."

It did occur to Ludo later that the Head Assassin seemed uncharacteristically jolly at that point. "Think of it as, ahem, a field trip." As if he was enjoying his own private joke.

The task blossomed into something far more complex once they arrived in Lancre. The file, it turned out, was two inches thick and clear as mud, dozens of pages filled with rambling, vague hints. Some of it seemed to have been cobbled together from letters, excerpts clipped out and pasted among the pages. Downey (who could be surprisingly perceptive at times) deduced that the file had been compiled decades ago; why was anyone's guess, but it would explain the ambiguity. After two days, the best information they had gleaned from the file was an age (around 65) and a possible occupation (a skilled tradesman of some kind, _"having beene apprenticed to a man of the towne"_). The physical description specified blond hair (which on a 65-year-old would have been long since white), average height and a slight build; altogether less than useless.

And then there was the bit about the eyes. There was an uncomfortably florid passage in the file on this point:_"One eye being the deep browne of rich earthe, the fertile grounde in which the beste crops do grow; the other a glass orbe of mutable color, at times an astoundinge light octarine, like to the coloure of the skye at earliest dawn, and at other times the dark grey of the angry sea." _That detail seemed helpful, at first, until they ambled down to the bar to ask if anyone knew a man with one eye.

The innkeeper, who was already suspicious of these two foreign dandies sharing one room, just glared at them and continued polishing glasses until Ludo and Downey weighted the question with a few coins. "Pull the other one, ye' young prats," the innkeeper sputtered, fighting a losing battle with a slow blush. "It's got bells on."

"We're looking," Ludo pressed on, louder, "for a man with a brown eye, and —"

At the end of the bar, several large fellows choked on their beers in an effort to control their laughter. "Don't be sayin' such things too loud, m'lads," chortled the one named Jason Ogg. "There's an open window somewhere in Lancre, to be sure, and if our mum hears you she'll need a serious lie-down."

After more awkward conversation with the locals at the bar, the assassins' purse of coins was several beers lighter and their wealth of knowledge was barely heavier. No one in town had mismatched eyes, and the men couldn't think of anyone in the surrounding countryside who fit the description either. Even the ancient white-hairs holding court over a perpetual game of Cripple Mister Onion* were of no help, muttering toothlessly to themselves and glaring darkly at the assassins until the pair went away.

_* Advanced cultures all across the Multiverse are fascinated with the idea of perpetual motion, and have devoted their finest minds to inventing a machine that could produce it. In only one universe has perpetual motion been discovered and harnessed — there, a thousand planets operate on the clean (if mothball-scented) energy of infinite card games played by little old men in the corner of dusty bars._

That put Ludo and Downey one step behind where they'd started. It was possible that the description had gotten something had gotten mixed up, they decided — the file seemed barely coherent anyway. That left them with only the client's occupation to go on, which was proving itself a puzzle all its own.

Downey tapped his pencil irritably on his notepad and reviewed the information aloud. "So there's Weaver the thatcher, Thatcher the carter, Baker and Tailor the weavers, Carter the baker, Carpenter the tailor, Tinker the tinker and Ogg the blacksmith," he recited.

"Oh no," said Quarney the storekeeper, helpfully. "There's also Ogg the herald, Ogg the soldier, Ogg the ploughman, Ogg the castle guard — course, them's all one person — and there's an Ogg who's a farmer, and another Ogg who makes cheese, and then of course there's, um, Her." He began coughing, a conspicuously fake wheeze. "Cough-cough-nannyogg-coughcough-witch-coughcough." The performance subsided. "'Course, she ain't a man. Not by a long shot."

Downey resumed scribbling notes, while Ludo did some mental translation. "Nanny Ogg, witch?" he inquired suspiciously.

"Don't be saying that name too loud, lad," hissed Quarney, eyes darting around the shop. "There's bound to be an open window somewhere —"

"Terrible cough you got there, young Quarney," boomed a cheerful voice. "Ye ain't comin' down with something, now, with your wife expectin' so soon and business picking up for the spring?"

Three heads turned to the door, where a round, grinning figure blocked out the last rays of evening sun. They could just make out the dull glint of a single tooth. Downey dropped his pencil.

"We can't have you takin' ill, m'lad," Nanny Ogg continued, pausing briefly to grab a few items as she advanced on the shop's counter. The items disappeared into her skirts. "Your wife'd never forgive me. I'll fix you something up, shall I?"

The shopkeeper waved his hands apprehensively. "Oh no, Mrs. Ogg, 'm right as rain," Quarney pleaded. "Just, uh, swallowed a bit of, um, swallowed a bug, is all. Flew right in my mouth. You know how the moths get at this hour of the day." He glanced mournfully at Nanny's skirts, which were a terrible sight for any man who didn't nail his products to the shelves.

"Well, that's mighty good to hear," said Nanny. "And I noticed you've been helping these two young gentlemen, too, what just arrived in town. Mighty welcoming. How's your trip to Lancre been treating you, m'lads?"

Ludo and Downey, who had been inching towards the door, froze in mid-tiptoe. Nanny eased herself between the assassins and their exit.

"I been meanin' to express my gratitude to you gents, for breaking my fall in the Goat and Bush the other night," she said, with a savage grin. "Our Jason told us you've been looking for a fellow around town. Maybe I can be a help." She took them both, forcefully, by the elbow.

"Well, ah, ma'am," Ludo began desperately. "We do appreciate the offer, but we —"

"Don't you worry, m'dear, won't be a bother at all," Nanny crowed. "We'll just take you up the hill to see a friend and get it all sorted out. Me and Granny, we'll find your man in no time."

The door to the shop slammed shut behind them as they left. The lock clicked.

* * *

By dawn, the three rowboats inching up the Ankh had made it as far as Misbegot Bridge. The vessels were filled with men who'd cut their teeth on oars (literally, in some cases) and knew water better than they knew their own mothers. The sort of men who could, and occasionally did, navigate a ship out of the belly of hell.

But this was something else. Any grumbling had been long since stifled by the hard work of rowing; in the Ankh River, this activity was akin to pulling taffy. Early-morning fog condensed on the men and poured off them in rancid rivulets, filling their boots and the floor of the boats. Cunning Jim, a weathered old scallywag who claimed to be half-mermaid, lost his hook-hand when it popped off its stump under the strain. The hook just floated there, with more buoyancy than a thing made of wrought iron had any right to possess, and Jim had refused to retrieve it.

As they approached Misbegot Bridge, the men noticed the glow of a campfire near the river's edge. It seemed impossibly bright and orange after a night spent rowing through monochrome, and anyway a fire meant people, and people usually meant an opportunity for plunder. The boats were coaxed ashore, and the men crept up the bank toward the fire.

Beneath the bridge sat three figures, all of whom seemed entirely unsurprised to seem them.

"Buggerit, hmmm, ain't sellin' no banjo, I tells 'em, buggerit," declared the one wearing a huge overcoat. He squinted erratically at the visitors. "Errr, I tells you, they's been listenin' through that sack, buggerit, pockets full o' doggies. Millennium hand and shrimp."

The one without legs, who was poking the sickly fire with what appeared to be a boot on a stick, wheeled around in his cart and grinned horribly. "'ey m'lads, change for a penny, m'lads, there's some good chaps," he wheezed. Somewhere in the darkness, a duck quacked.

The group of men who had crept up to the fire suddenly took a step back. Conspiratorial leers and predatory grins turned to uncomfortable looks and apologetic half-smiles. Eyes watered from The Smell.

"We'll just be going," said the man called Red, awkwardly. "Took a wrong turn we did, back at, um, took a wrong turn. Yes."

"Buggerit, mmm, can't be spinnin' tops with the mayor," said the overcoat-clad figure, from whom The Smell seemed to be emanating. "Tellin' stories to them ole horses."

The group of men spent the next few hours huddled under their rowboats. When they woke up, it was noon, and some of their boots were missing.


	6. Chapter 6: A Hard Boat to Row

"_Galatea, whiter than the snowy privet petals,  
__taller than slim alder, more flowery than the meadows,  
__friskier than a tender kid, more radiant than crystal,  
__smoother than shells, polished, by the endless tides ..."  
_— _The Song of Polyphemus, _Ovid's _Metamorphoses_

"_We took pity on him because he'd lost both parents at an early age. I think that, on reflection, we should have wondered a bit more about that."  
_— Lord Downey, _Hogfather_

**CHAPTER 6: A HARD BOAT TO ROW**

Nanny Ogg piloted her reluctant escorts up the path to Granny Weatherwax's cottage, releasing them at the front door. She patted Ludo and Downey on the head.

"You'll just be waitin' here for a moment, m'loves," crooned Nanny. "Just let us take a peek in first. We've got to be sure the lady of the house is, heh, dressed to receive."

She faded into the darkness. Inside the cottage there was spatter of quiet conversation, imperceptible to the assassins waiting beyond the front door. "Esme?" Nanny breathed. "You here?"

"What do ye think, Gytha Ogg?" hissed Granny Weatherwax, from somewhere in the gloom. "Did you bring them gentlemen callers of yours?"

"They're just out front, Esme," whispered Nanny Ogg. "Is the boy ready?"

"Yes," Granny muttered. "Just don't be mucking it up by saying Those Words. I just finally got him to shut up about it."

"You mean, eh, the bit about four o'clock in the afternoon?" Nanny Ogg said, softly. "Teh-ah-time-eh?"

There was a giggle somewhere in the darkness, and then a hushing noise.

Outside the cottage, the assassins glanced at each other apprehensively. Downey cleared his throat. "_Dressed to receive?_" he hissed.

Ludo stared straight ahead. "Just be quiet," he muttered fiercely, from the corner of his mouth. "Don't do anything stupid, Downey, and maybe we'll get out of here. And then we're going back to Ankh-Morpork, contract be damned."

"But what have we walked into, Ludo? Who knows what manner of eldrich temptatio —"

With an ominous creak, the front door swung open.

When Ludo and Downey finally crept inside, they found only a dim fire casting long, looming shadows around a bare room. "Blessings be upon your visit," growled a voice behind them.

The assassins froze, mutually and painfully aware that they had walked straight in to the oldest trick in the book. Ludo grasped for his knife; in a flash, his hand was trapped in an iron grip.

"Aye, just you take a seat, m'lads," boomed Nanny Ogg cheerfully, sweeping into view with an armful of logs. "It's gone a bit chilly in here, but we'll have the fire built up in no time."

Ludo's hand was released and the assassins stumbled forward, falling awkwardly into a pair of chairs. "You just let Mistress Weatherwax know about your trouble," cooed Nanny Ogg from the hearth.

Granny settled into her rocking chair and gestured to the teapot on the table. Her face curled into the terrifying echo of a helpful smile. "Have a cup, young sirs," she barked. "Make yourselves comfortable. It's a frosty night, we can't have you taking a chill."

* * *

"What I wants to know," said the one called Bonnet, slamming his beer mug on the table, "is why we're even botherin' about this. Any man jack among us can lead a ship. The damn thing prac'icly sails isself. Bein' boss is just a bunch o' hollerin' and starin' at maps and sleepin' in a fancy bunk."

A grumble of assent bubbled up from the younger members of the crew. "You want a cap'ain? I'll gives you a cap'ain," declared a fresh-faced boy named Hiccup. A sudden hush fell among the group assembled in the corner of the Broken Drum, and the boy took their silence as a sign to continue. "I'd fancy a big hat and a room above deck. I'll sail ye' lads to glory an' ..."

"Aye, will ye now?" growled a voice just behind the boy's head. Hiccup's mouth snapped shut.

The giant, red-bearded figure strode forward and took the empty seat at the head of the table. Hiccup gulped at his beer desperately, and began to make good on his name.

"Who among ye," said Red, after a long and meaningful pause, "knows the tale of ol' One-Eyed Jack, captain of the White Swan?"

At the opposite end of the table, there was a sound like dice in a copper cup or bones rattling in a coffin as the oldest member of the crew cleared his throat. He rose slowly from his chair and lifted his eyepatch, revealing a gaping blackness.

"I'll tell ye the tale," said the old man, and began his story.

* * *

The fire grew brighter as Ludo and Downey went through the motions of pouring tea; as more of the room came slowly into view, the cottage became cozy and comforting. An antique clock ticked merrily on one wall as Nanny Ogg fussed at the kettle. The tea service was well-polished old silver with a cream jug in the shape of a grinning cow.

Just when the assassins had begun to relax, Granny spoke.

"What nice young lads you are," she intoned, "to be looking in on an old woman on a cold spring night. It is lonely up here, without no visitors to keep us company. Lawks."

"My yes, and chivalrous too," said Nanny. "Appearin' at the nick o' time to save me from a terrible fall and —"

"Yes, yes, Gytha, we know," snapped Granny Weatherwax. She gazed pointedly at Ludo and Downey. "Nice boys. Helpful."

The assassins squirmed. Ludo flinched inwardly as his companion cleared his throat. "My good, um, woman," Downey said. "We had, uh, hoped that you could, eh, provide some assistance, with, um, a matter of business we have been contracted to attend to. We are looking, you see, for a man. He is an older gentleman, perhaps in his sixties, with one —"

"Never heard of 'im," said Granny, flatly. "No one in these parts by that description. Probably moved away, maybe back to your big city down there on the plains. Ankh-Morpork, ain't it?"

"Um, yes," Ludo said, "but —"

"Either of you lads got any relatives you look after?" Granny soldiered on. "Younger brothers, sick mothers, orphaned nephews, that sort of thing?"

Downey's expression contorted around the sudden conversational switchback. "No ma'am," he hazarded. "Orphans are usually taken in by —"

"Good," said Granny. "Then, being the helpful chaps that you are, I expect that you'll be happy to do a good turn by a young lad in need of a home."

There was a muted crash as Nanny Ogg extracted a small, struggling figure from the linen closet. The boy was herded into the center of the room, where he glowered up at Ludo and Downey. Firelight gleamed off golden curls and one bone-white eye punctuated with a tiny, sharp pupil. The glass orb in his other socket flashed a dull gray, like a distant thunderstorm.

"He needs looking after," said Granny. "And I can't do it, see, being as I am an old and helpless woman living alone in the woods. Lawks."

The assassins gaped at the boy and then at each other. "Is … he … missing an eye?" Ludo croaked.

"Indeed he is, poor thing," agreed Nanny Ogg. "Lost it in, well, a terrible accident. And his family. Both parents. Lost 'em at an early age." She glanced at Granny Weatherwax, who nodded.

"His name's Jonathan," said Granny, gesturing to the small figure now tugging solemnly at her skirts.

"Teh-ah-time-eh?" the boy piped. There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Yes," continued Granny Weatherwax, stonefaced. "Jonathan, eh, Teh-ah-time-eh."

Ludo, Downey and Nanny all looked puzzled.

"Jonathan _Teatime_?" asked Downey. "Like, um, the meal you have at four-o'clock in the afternoon?"

"Of course not. What sort of name is that?" snapped Granny. "It's _Teh-ah-time-eh_, young sir."

* * *

When Nanny Ogg returned to the village, there was a black figure darkening the shadows of her doorstep. She paused, leaned idly against the wall of the house and pulled a pipe out of her skirts, followed by a bag of tobacco.

"You'd best come in, then," said Nanny, after she finished packing her pipe. The darkness followed her through the back door and settled in front of the fire, foot thumping against the floor as it scratched.

Nanny uncorked a dark green bottle and poured herself a drink, then laid a saucer on the hearth. She tipped another healthy draught into the saucer, eased into her chair and lit her pipe.

Old Itchy padded over and gave the brandy an experimental sniff, ears perking up. His muzzle collided with hobnailed leather as Nanny stomped her boot down in front of the saucer. Itchy's wrinkled hound face looked up at her mournfully.

"I think," murmured Nanny, "that there's something you ought to be telling me."

Itchy pawed desperately at his ear. "Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma'am," he whined. "I am but a lowly beast. What knowledge could I possibly offer a great witch, of the Ogg blood besides?"

"Indeed, I am that. So you knows better than to spin your tricks under this roof," said Nanny, from an evil cloud of pipe smoke. "Tell me your story, Black Dog, the real truth. About that boy."

There was a sound like cracking leather or bones rattling in a coffin as Old Itchy scratched his jowls. He rose slowly from the floor, shifting and twisting, until he stood on two legs.

"I'll tell you the tale," said the great dark man, and began his story.

* * *

The journey to Lancre had been a pleasant dream compared to the return trip to Ankh-Morpork.

The storm began before dawn, rain pounding clay roads into grease, and the wheels of the express coach slipped and spun nauseously through the muck. The assassins huddled miserably together on one bench.

"What are we gonna tell Follett?" groaned Downey after a while. "The old scag is going to flip his wig. Coming back with an unfulfilled contract and," he gestured, without looking up, "that too? We'll be flogged for this, mark my words."

"No," said Ludo. "We followed instructions. The Guild's Standards of Behavior do not end outside city walls."

Downey shot him a questioning look.

"We followed instructions," Ludo repeated, softly. "We located the client. Blond hair and a glass eye. But the file was wrong about the age, or perhaps the contractor deceived us. So we adhered to Guild law."

They both glanced across the coach, where the boy called Jonathan Teatime sat playing with what appeared to be an old hatpin. He stared up through his one narrow pupil and flashed Ludo and Downey a smile.

Heartless and cutthroat as the Guild of Assassins might be, they did follow The Rules. "No killing without pay" was one, and "fashionable black clothes at all times, even the pajamas" was another. But some things didn't need to be carved into the Guild crest or taught in Advanced Accoutrement to be understood; in absence of explanation, these precepts grew huge and unbreakable.

Foremost among the unspoken Rules was this: Assassins do not inhume children.

As they passed out of the mountains into the low hills of the Sto Plains, a mournful, hair-raising howl went up outside the carriage. The boy giggled.

* * *

A rare and tense quiet reigned in the corner of the Goat and Bush.

Like soldiers marching to certain doom, the game progressed slowly through the dusty afternoon and into the firelight of the evening. Hands folded one by one, with none of the usual japes or toothless muttering, but no one left the table.

By the fifth hour, a dozen pairs of eyes watched, but only two players remained.

The oldest of the men peered out from a greasy curtain of white-grey hair, one clouded eye alternately inspecting his hand of cards and glancing desperately at his opponent. Across the table, a solemn figure kept her own cards clutched tight beneath the shadow of a tall black hat; her unoccupied hand reached up, extended a pinky finger, and began to absentmindedly clean out her ear.

_Squeak, squeak._

More cards were silently discarded and replaced. After another long, squeaky pause, the old man sighed and fanned his cards out next to the five already laying face-up on the table.

"King of crowns, ace of coins, ace of octagrams, knave of elephants, queen of cups," he intoned flatly. "Ace of elephants. A Three-Card Onion."

The witch moved to show her own hand, but the ancient man interrupted her with a wave that scattered his cards across the table. "I know when I am beat, Mistress Weatherwax. Do not bother."

Granny nodded, once. She gathered her cards together and laid them in a single stack, face up; the top card was the knave of swords. The One-Eyed Jack.

"You know the wager," said Granny Weatherwax softly. "You owes me a story. Pay up, then."

There was a sound like coins being tipped out of a jar or bones rattling in a coffin as the old man cleared his throat. He rose slowly from his chair and swept the greasy white hair away from his lined face.

"I'll tell ye the tale," said the old man, and began his story.

* * *

**Author's note: **We're almost to the halfway mark now. Anyone who gets the reference to She Who Is Milk-White and the One-Eyed Man gets extra Internet points. And PLEASE REVIEW!


	7. Chapter 7: The Tale of One-Eyed Jack

"Everything starts somewhere, although many physicists disagree.  
There is the constant desire to find out where — where is the point where it all began. …  
But most people forgot that the very oldest stories of the beginning are sooner or later about blood."  
— Terry Pratchett, "Hogfather"

"That's some kind of Zen, isn't it?"  
— The Fool, "Wyrd Sisters"

**CHAPTER 7: THE TALE OF ONE-EYED JACK AND THE WHITE SWAN**

_On the Discworld, which is balanced on the backs of four great elephants standing on the shell of a giant turtle, there exists a place in the high Ramtops Mountains where the universe is _thin._ Not thin like an old blanket or a sheet of paper — this is an existential thinness, like the boundary between two rooms that exists in the space of an open door. And like an open door, things can pass in and out unnoticed if the boundary isn't tended._

_Because these things come in twos, there is another such gateway on the Discworld, equal to and opposite the first. So above, so below, that kind of thing._

_In the furthest deeps of the Rim Ocean, there is a shallow circular trench ringed, impossibly, by eight squat little stones. No current disturbs the fine dark sand within the circle. Not even the slippery nightmare creatures that live in eternal darkness will swim through that patch of water._

_It's hard to imagine how any humans could know about this place, so far down in the lightless depths of the sea. But a few carry the knowledge of its existence — and with that knowledge, a duty. A duty born in the bones, as it were, passed down through stories told since the first sailor stepped foot in a boat._

_The stories said, **"Aye, mate. Here there be monsters." **_

_So you tended the boundary. You didn't go off on a sea voyage without first spilling some wine on the deck. You didn't step on a boat with your left foot first. You always kept a silver coin tucked under the masthead, and you never killed dolphins, or gulls, or an albatross. You didn't throw rocks into the sea from the ship's deck, and you let your hair grow long until you reached port. And you never, never, never said the "D" word._

_And when you came across a great pale ship, with snow-white sails and a masthead carved into the shape of wings, you called every man on deck and stood in salute until she passed by. And if, in a seaside tavern, you came across a golden-haired man with one glass eye the color of a stormy sea, you gave him a quiet nod and bought him a drink. For even the blackest-hearted scallywag knew of One-Eyed Jack and his ship, the White Swan._

_Some said the Weather Eye was naught but an ordinary scrying stone, like those used by witches and wizards to have a peek about. Less mundane minds believed it was one of the countless eyes of Blind Io, dropped to earth from Dunmanifestin as a gift to seagoing men everywhere. Those of a more whimsical persuasion said the Eye was spat up by a magic fish, who was capable of granting wishes, yet couldn't evade a common tuna net._

_The white-bearded salt dogs, the grizzled grandfathers of the sea, told another story. They said it was the dwarfs who had originally found the Eye, deep underground, where great rivers run like blood through the living rock of the Disc. The dwarfs had believed the Eye was the heart-stone of the Fifth Elephant, whose body had created their holy mountains, and they had revered the stone and kept it safe._

_Then came the fateful day when someone fell asleep on the job and the Eye was stolen — by a human, no less, who hearing of the dwarfs' great treasure had somehow navigated into the heart of the mountain by boat, on one of the great underground rivers, and back out again the same way._

_(It's worth noting that dwarfs to this day hate water, as if by genetic memory, and would sooner cut off their beards than travel on the open ocean. It is also not by coincidence that the dwarfish word meaning "treacherous,"_ h'ntr'lstga_, can be literally translated to mean "watery.")_

_But all of these stories converge at this point — the first man to acquire the holy seafaring artifact known as the Weather Eye. His name had been Jack, a strapping young lad with curly, golden hair. Jack loved to drink and sing and travel, and so stole the hearts of women everywhere. He was also a thief of other things, particularly anything that wasn't nailed down._

_Jack had only one eye (narrative conventions must start somewhere). To keep his new-found treasure safe, Jack had shoved the Weather Eye into the empty socket beneath his eyepatch, only to discover that he was looking out onto a very different world than the one he had occupied previously._

_And then Jack and his new Eye had gone, bold as you please, and stolen the finest ship in the world. It had belonged to the King of Ankh. __The ship's name was the White Swan, and she was a thing of great beauty. She had been built from enchanted cedarwood as silvery and pale as the moon, with ivory fittings and bone-white sails, and had a masthead carved into outstretched wings._

_And on those wings flew One-Eyed Jack, across the ocean and into history. The first pirate._

_With the Weather Eye, it was said, Jack could control storms and read the hearts of men. He see a whisper in the wind and land in a fog, and could (very usefully) spot any well-fortified trading vessel ten miles off. The White Swan was never scuttled or sunk — and this was notable, for it was not uncommon in those days for ships to leave port and never be seen again. Even the most seasoned seafarer wouldn't sail far from dry land, and it was generally agreed that beyond the Circle Sea awaited Certain Death._

_But everything changed when the White Swan took flight. Jack might have been the first pirate, but he wasn't the last, for a true rogue anywhere recognizes a good business plan when he sees it. At first, it was said that no ship flying pirate colors or carrying stolen gold could be taken down so long as Jack and his magic Eye sailed the open sea. Then, realizing that the pirate vessels had traveled off the map and returned no worse for wear, the crews of the merchant traders and battleships also grew bolder. _

_Within a score of years, humanity had undergone a significant evolutionary leap in the travel and commerce departments. Within a few short decades, ships and boats and cogs of all descriptions crisscrossed every inch of the ocean, like a great troupe of worker ants._

_During his travels, Jack fell in love for one night, and the next morning swore to his bonny Genuan lass to return when he'd made his fortune. When the White Swan sailed back into Genua a year later, his lass was waiting, holding a baby boy with Jack's curly blond hair and and an empty, black socket where one eye should have been. She met him at the dock, where she handed him the sleeping child._

_"I named him Jack," she said, and walked wordlessly back up the dock and out of sight._

_And so Young Jack grew up on the White Swan. Few little boys get the chance to be raised by pirates,* and this fortunate lad took full advantage of the situation. He learned to walk on the rolling deck and cut his teeth on oars, and his first words were so blue and blasphemous that the ship's old cook almost fell overboard for laughing. He learned more languages and visited more countries around the Disc by age six than most men do in their lives, and in every port was doted on and shamelessly spoiled by countless barmaids and merchant's wives._

*Which proves conclusively that there is no such thing as a magic fish that grants wishes, or at least the wishes of little boys.

_In time, Young Jack grew strong and tall and clever, nurtured by hard work, generous rations, plenty of fresh salt air and the watchful Eye of his father. Young Jack could ready a ship to sail in under an hour, commandeer a merchant vessel without breaking a sweat, and best any swordsman on the Disc both left- and right-handed. The sight of his well-muscled figure climbing up the ship's rigging with a knife in his teeth could make even the most cold-hearted old crone go weak in the knees._

_But as Young Jack grew into a man, his father grew old, as all men must do. Old One-Eyed Jack's golden hair grew white and his clever hands grew gnarled, and the wrinkles deepened on his weather-lined face. His mismatched eyes were always sharp, though, and no man who ever took a ship's wheel could ever outsail the White Swan._

_Late one night, in a seaside tavern in Genua, Old Jack and Young Jack were sharing a quiet drink in the corner. It was an annual tradition, a celebration in honor of Young Jack's birthday. The last of the admiring young women had finally wandered away before the elder pirate cleared his throat and turned to his son._

"_You know, m'boy, you was born here," said One-Eyed Jack, waving his mug expansively to indicate both the tavern and the city outside. "I met your mother in this very bar, I did. A beautiful lass, with freckles and fiery hair like the sky after a storm."_

_Young Jack raised an eyebrow in surprise, then nodded. The other sailors on the White Swan had told him of his origins, although his father had never spoken of it — even when Young Jack had asked._

"_I done a-many great things, son," and here the old sailor chuckled, "but none so great, I think, as all them stories as carry m'name. A man with a legend so big starts to feel a bit small, in the end, when his knees complain on cold mornings."_

_There was a brief silence._

"_There will never been a man as great as you, Dad," said Young Jack fiercely, after some thought. His love for his father was as deep as the sea. Now, as he watched the grizzled old face gazing reflectively back through the years, Young Jack would have given anything for just a few years more._

"_Aye, but I ain't got much left to give _you_," said old One-Eyed Jack, as if reading his son's mind. Perhaps he had. "Just a name and a ship, fine as she is. And one other thing, of course. A legend so big as One Eyed-Jack can't die with an old pirate."_

_With that, there was a soft "pop." Young Jack looked up sharply and gasped. His father winked at him, his eyelid opening onto empty blackness. He rolled the Eye carefully in one scarred, outstretched palm._

"_Ye know, I got this thing when I was your age," said One-Eyed Jack. "Twenty-nine years old. You feel old now, m'boy — I know I did, at your age. Felt like I'd seen and done it all. But let me tell you, twenty-nine ain't even the beginning. Or maybe it is. The beginning of the real adventure."_

_He reached out and gently tugged the eyepatch off his son's gaping face. He gave a grotesque wink again before lowering the patch carefully over his own empty socket, then grasped Young Jack's hand and firmly tucked the Weather Eye into his palm._

_"Call it a birthday present," said Old Jack, grinning roguishly. He gave Young Jack a deep, searching look, and for a moment father and son sat locked eye-to-eye._

"_Dad —"_

_Old Jack shook his head, and his grin faded. "Keep her safe," he said._

_Young Jack fought back tears. "The White Swan?"_

_"Her, and every sea she sails on. They need you," said the old man softly, and walked out of the tavern and into the night._

_The next morning, the White Swan set sail from Genua, with One-Eyed Jack at the helm. He was a strapping pirate with curly golden hair and a magical Eye, guiding a great pale ship with snow-white sails and a masthead carved into the shape of wings._

* * *

**Editor's note: Finally, a new chapter! Your kind reviews have persuaded me to continue on with this beast. I like to think that this is the midpoint in the story. Readers can anticipate a big time jump in future chapters, as the story picks itself back up in Ankh-Morpork in what might be loosely-termed "present day" on the Discworld timeline. I know that this chapter really sends things WAY off the rails, so bear with me while I pick up the pieces and weave them together, as best I can, with Discworld canon. Onward!**


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